Novel Bin Chapter 660
It began normally, the power change brought new rules and laws. One of which was segregation. The ground floor, once a place of refuge for adventurers and visitors, turned to a cell for the beast humans. Life here as the latter was harsh, manual labor battles to the death, and weird torture kinks for the rich and powerful. By this point, the religious belief of Kreston’s church alienated those of inhumane appearance. Anywho served the church, at any capacity, may they be the priest or an altar boy, judgment was based on looks. The moral compass inherits from very religious people was in most cases an escape, a way to find solace in their actions. Hence, the depraved nature of the beastmen’s treatment didn’t once cross their minds. Where the line of cruelty barely flickers and the pressure of beliefs strangles, tis fair to say, a singular path opened – follow and obey. From the outside in, the true torment couldn’t be showcased. No reference nor context, hell, not even names to faces, the trip inside the hell of the ground floor would only disrespect the sufferance.
Day to day, I, humble unnamed chronicler of the church, was tasked to write and record the happenings. Our sovereign said to not care about the days, only write what I saw and factually record the way people reacted. Thus, in my office, I sit and write with a book and quill. As a converted demi-human, sympathy was granted by the suppressed individuals.
We begin when the church finally took power. The borders and main entrance were still open. The adventurers, more specifically, those under the guild’s command, were wary but safe. Nothing changed, for the most part, life on the ground, first, and the second floor continued normally. Monsters were killed, loot was traded and exchanged. Sadly, the first sign of things to come would soon bear its head. A prominent young noble lord of a trader’s family(demi-human) was found mutilated and engrave with a paragraph from our teachings. Expendable a man I was, the corpse would never find true salvation. Tragedy befell their family, the father had an affair, the mother went mad, and the children died of maladies. In the span of three days from the heir’s death, a noble family and its blood were wiped from the planet. I dare not say how many other have suffered the same fate. In the later days and weeks, my mind, cynical and judging in nature, would watch and notice slight changes. Most apparent, guards, men of the cloth, waited prominently over the bystanders. Moral and questions were raised. Nothing came of the people’s fear. Soon, the last and final straw was pulled. A member of the royal entourage, a lady in wait preciously in service to the queen, was publicly humiliated, tried, and hung for dishonesty and witchcraft. Magic isn’t a subject of fear, nor is it unusual, clean magic else, the use and conjuration of spells by one’s own might and mana is without argument, accepted. Dark magic, the use of mediums, spirits, and ancient arts to harm, or in any way, do harm to the church or its followers, would beget scrutiny and death.
A priest by the name of Albert was inquisitor and chief investigator for the dark crafts. Tasked by the king himself, he would go into town, investigate reports and publicly question and test the accused. Guilty until proven wrong. Humiliation lashes to the back, ears, and tails chopped for the sake of cleanliness, the victims would more or less give to the accusation, the want of death overshadowed the truth. In all cases, of which I’ve kept a record in another book, was deemed wrong and thus burnt or otherwise killed. The witch trials without a doubt, the worst documentary I have ever written. The victims, young in age and prominently of the female demography – were abused to the brink of insanity.
Enough on the trials, the worst had yet to come. Time progresses further. Liberties once taken for granted were swapped for forced labor and quests. The guild lost its power and was ruled by nobles of the church. Less and fewer tasks outside the capital were posted, until, the freedom vanished altogether –
[My duties as chronicler are to be factual and not add my feelings into the reports. I have earnestly tried, believe that I’ve agonized and anguished onto this very point. A friend of mine has had an idea of a spell for quite some time. Access to advanced technology is limited to only the people of power. Two versions of the chronicles have been published, one factual and intended to please the monarch, and one where I accurately paint the picture of truth, my feelings and doubts are firmed by proof. Worry not readers, nameless and unknown as I am, my volition is pure. Said paragraph should have been at the start, no matter]
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– furthermore, the disappearances of high-ranking adventurers were also highly unusual. Some patrons of an eatery I frequent were adventurers. A man clad in black, nicknamed Noire, would prowl the night and attack the unguarded fighters. The pride and strength of the demi-humans were ground to absolute order.
Ground floor, once a place of the venture, became a sign of horror. Tried witches paraded across the streets, impaled and half-alive. Adventurers dropped left and right, nobles vanished, power and influence couldn’t stand against the oppression. Day and night, the constant screams and plea for mercy nulled the hearts of many. Young and old watched silently, did as was ordered, lifeless eyes and hardened hearts, the majority became puppets.
In the coming weeks, the eatery which I frequented closed its doors. The chef and owner suddenly vanished. One an elf, and the other a demi-human bearing rabbit’s feature.
Where oppression presses, revolt is birthed, a particular race didn’t stand for said actions. Bear in mind, the council of races was naught but power in the title, the rulership was handed to King Lucifer. Arda’s royal family disappeared, some speculate killed for an easier ascension to power. Back to the revolt, the swamp, motherland of the Lizardmen tribe, were angry. They were never tried and also kept at a distance. An incident outside the capital sparked the defining moment of the castle’s rule. An escort mission turned witch-hunt. A young noble priest from the church, ordered to pay a visit at a nearby village for the conversion of the fiends, was met by an ambush. The young man died, and the fierce lizardman returned with a body in toe. Here, the father of the boy, a trader, outraged by the incompetence, killed the adventurers before the masses. The next day, Kreston’s army, helmed by the chief inquisitor, marched out of the capital. In there, I received damning evidence of the supposed ambush. Another friend of mind reportedly saw the faces of the attackers; humans.
Next, the army returned, and a grand ceremony was hosted on the ground floor. “-Lizardmen tribe has been exterminated,” or so I vaguely remember their words. Yes, the news was true, the unthinkable had become reality. A meaningless genocide. How about this, the lizardman tribe was said to be the closest aid to his majesty. In a single instant, their race was wiped out. The same question went around the people’s mind, ‘-if they could wipe out their allies, what about their enemies, what about us.’ Next, the main entrance was shut and the first floor was restricted. Most of the residents, around 50,000, were forced to the ground level. Prestige, money, gender, race, it didn’t matter, no houses, cramped streets, who cared, the church bore their fangs. Communication to the outside world was cut. No work, barely any food, and the constant scenery being a prison; anarchy ran amok. Thievery, murders, kidnapping; illegal turned legal, no laws nor right or wrong, the streets became fighting grounds. The strong turned mad with power. The only safe haven was the adventuring guild, the place where I stay and is protected by the church. I often see nobles overlook the carnage and suffering and have supper.
Famine halted the needless violence, a shell of their prior selves walked. Where once we had the sun’s light as a guide, the all-mighty deity would never shine again. The frightful and cold night had the populous in their clutches. The pain would only increase. More and more demi’s were pushed down into the cell, the abyss of no return. The only entertainment was the union of flesh. No matter where one looked, the traumatic sight would forever burn in one’s heart. A witnessed lovemaking beside a man bludgeoned to death, tis how the mentality of the Ardanian swapped. Nearby villages were forced, the numbers grew. People slept on the street; children staved without knowing the outside world. Newborns, well, in a time of famine and pain, no other word need be added, conclusions can be reached without my intervention.
Duties forced me out of Arda. A year passed when I returned. The ground floor’s scenery was of skinny figures cannibalizing dead bodies. Consciousness retracted to primal instincts. Ardanians were no longer able to speak, the fight for survival reawakened their taste for blood and hunting drive. The animalistic kingdom lived on survival of the fittest, herbivores were devoured, carnivores ate and mated, omnivores took neutral stances, territories divided. I couldn’t believe my eyes, the proud Ardanians were forced to be beasts. The worst part, nobles would take guns and hunt the herbivores. I saw a child run and be shot in the leg. The parents watched in horror, the shooter, a young boy, held the child’s ears and slit its neck. Praises from his parents elevated his sense of pride.
Lady fate had yet abandoned hope. The Blood King’s faction truly opposed the church. The torment and pain took corporal form in a stranger’s will. The Devil of Glenda stepped foot onto Ardanian soil, and throughout last year, made strides in refuting the church. The army lost a large number of soldiers, next, came the decisive battle of Glenda, whereby, a single man annihilated seven thousand men. The BK faction also took control of the airfield and significant castles.
The outside events served to inflame the inside, the cell turned into a place of outrage. Defeated Krestonians stormed the ground floor in search of victims. They’d hurl their prey to the first floor and there, would be killed and flung off the tree. At the time of my writing this, the last bastion of humanity was lost. A major event rattled the leadership, pillars of confidence and strength crumbled. When it gave, the receivers, the Ardanian’s wouldn’t be spared. To fulfill their thirst for power, the last ever order was, ‘-eliminate everyone.’
The always dark cell burnt, bodies were killed and maimed. Carnivores or not, the instilled fear of the fair-skin humans forced an unjust surrender. Lines and rows of Ardanians were killed in arduous flames, suffocation, torture, and abused physically. The children were spared to watch their parents die, and vice-versa, in the end, the last thought, “-curse the wicked humans.”
A run-away mage was able to create an escape path, albeit, the result, a precipice to their deaths. Here say, I end my recollection of the Church’s rule in Arda. Whoever finds this manuscript, please, have it published, and may the world know the true face of the Empire. I’ve grown old, I sense the reapers scythe around my neck. I’m part of the lucky few who the church accepted. I gave more than I received. I doubt you to survive the purifying flames, a pitiable existence. By no means are my words on paper meant to sully the church or blame ideals. If fingers were to be pointed, the cycle of revenge would forever churn until humanity ends. As a man of old, I leave fate to the younger generation.
If even the manuscript is read, I wish to impart these words to a singular man, “Devil of Glenda, strive towards a place where co-existence is reality, not a fleeting dream. The path is thine to choose, no matter the disposition, I wish Arda to revive from its ashes, rise and fly, Phoenix, and may they see what thee becomes!”